


böser Zauberer wird besessen, vom nassen blauen Hottie erniedrigt

by TrentsWorm



Series: torsit zona [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Choking, Dubious Consent, Implied Consent, M/M, PWP, Power Play, Shotgun Smoking/Shotgunning, Undernegotiated Kink, Younger Trent Ikithon(Around 30)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 18:46:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17709551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrentsWorm/pseuds/TrentsWorm
Summary: TheGentleman. One of the newer addition to the Empire's underground prefectures. A man at the center of a steadily spreading spider's web of which the Assembly itself is yet to find all the threads. It's a near miracle they've even managed to arrange this meeting in the first place. Trent was sent because he specializes in speaking with...difficult people. Or in Hass's far less delicate words;‘you have a pretty face, Trent, use it.’





	böser Zauberer wird besessen, vom nassen blauen Hottie erniedrigt

**Author's Note:**

> For reference: Trent is around 30 and Babenon is around the same age/ the equivalent in human years as well in this.

The den of criminals and lowlifes teems with the unsavory solicitations of illicit behavior. Trent curls his lip at the reek of tobacco, of herbs that are far more than medicinal, and the staunch scent of alcohol slicking the air. A haze drifts within the hidden tavern, parting around the moving figures like dragon's breath. The hidden beast’s smoke curls from the lit ends of cigars and rolled tobacco clutched in sly fingers, obscuring the faces and features of the villains that leer out from their corners and shadows at him. He is a stranger in their midst, but he is not in any danger. They know he is untouchable here. 

He trails the woman who greeted him up top-- an elven sort, with darkened skin and light hair that makes him contemplate drow ancestry, but he is not here to press on matters of Xhorhas and the Krynn. That is for another day. Today, he is here to settle business. She leads him through a menagerie of tables, all of various makes, some far finer than others, as if scrounged from the remains of other taverns and similarly shady dives. Fitting for a pack of scavengers, really. 

The rabble gathered around the tables peer up at him as he passes. He pays no heed to the knives balanced between fingertips or the teeth bared at him, nor even the low hissed whispers of distaste for the insignia embroidered into his robes.  They are beneath him here. 

There is only one individual that stands even near to his equal amidst this seedy lair. 

She leads him to a table at the back, and it is an emperor's court. The man before him is draped in a chair of deep carmine velvet and gold lavishments decorating the arms. His cerulean, ocean-tinged skin is a testament to the descriptions Trent had been given. By word of mouth, it had been as plain as any bullet-pointed description of a water genasi could possibly be. But in person the man is near glistening, shined beneath the vaporous cloud of smoke he breathes from parted lips. The glowing end of the cigarette, perched between two slender fingers, draws Trent's eyes up the length of him. Beads of condensation lazily trail themselves down the propped forearm, down to the crook of his elbow, and Trent watches them disappear into a fine sleeve of slipping silk. His attention trails over the dark satin-sheened robe, loosely tied at the waist, leaving little to the imagination where the fabric parts over the gensai's chest. Back up to lips that have quirked into a smirk, framed by darkened stubble that's been groomed into the shadow of a pattern. The amused pinch to the gensai's eyes is unexpected, as is the leering way he sweeps down the length of Trent and back up to level him with a knowing and decidedly heated gaze. 

The elven woman that led him here pulls out the chair settled across from the gensai. Trent takes the seat, turning to nod his thanks to the woman but she's already vanished amongst the haze of the bar. 

“Trent Ikithon, is it?” The gensai nearly purrs, tapping the cigarette still perched in his fingers before placing it on the edge of a finely cut quartz tray. “ _Freut mich, Sie zu sehen_.”

Trent goes rigid, fingers curling where he's folded them on the table. The distinct sound of glass shifting across oak fills the silence lingers between them and he watches the gensai busy himself with preparing the imbibements for this meeting. 

“Don't look so shocked.” The man continues, hoisting up a decanter and pouring a glass of deep maroon liquid, all with that same sharp smirk. “I have connections in the Zemni Fields, I've picked up a thing or two.”

This gentleman-- _The_ Gentleman. One of the newer addition to the Empire's underground prefectures. A man at the center of a steadily spreading spider's web of which the Assembly itself is yet to find all the threads. It's a near miracle they've even managed to arrange this meeting in the first place. Trent was sent because he specializes in speaking with... _difficult people_. Or in Hass's far less delicate words; _‘you have a pretty face, Trent, use it.’_

Trent frowns, distaste curdling for the gensai before him. He purposely molded to the Rexxnetrum accent to avoid this, but the man's already cut right through that farce.

This might be more difficult than he thought.

“What brings you to my humble establishment, _Herr_ Ikithon?” 

The title sends his eye twitching and an involuntary strike of heat curling up his spine. “Trent is fine.” 

“First name basis already?” The Gentleman asks, settling back in his throne. “And what have I done to earn such an honor?”  

“You've caught my attention.” 

The Gentleman raises a single slender brow, finger tapping against the rim of his stemmed glass. 

“To be precise, you've caught the Assembly's attention.” 

“I know.” The Gentleman tilts his head, smirk curling his lips. “I wasn't trying to hide.” 

“Well, now that you have it.” Trent leans forward, claiming the glass that was poured for him.  “What will you do?” 

The Gentleman's grin widens. “Nothing.”

Trent restrains the startled jolt of his fingers along the glass. “Nothing?” 

“I wanted to see how the Assembly would respond to my little… shipments. And they sent _you_.” The Gentleman raps his fingers on the table, an incessant sound that sends needles dancing along Trent's nerves. “But you didn't send men to stop the package from reaching its destination.” The gensai levels him with a knowing look. “You know what's in it, don't you?”

“I do.” 

“So…” The Gentleman swirls the dark burgundy liquid in his glass. “You are a man of similar tastes, then?” 

“I would not put it quite like that, but if it makes this easier, think what you will.” 

“And what exactly _is_ this, Herr Ikithon?” 

“Negotiations.”

“And you presume the Assembly is in any position to negotiate with _me_?” The Gentleman plucks up a grape from a silver bowl beside the ashtray, musing it between his fingers. “What could you possibly offer that I do not already have?”

“The support of the Assembly.”

Trent watches the gensai press the grape past his lips. He chewed for a moment before folding his hands on the table and leaning forward. “And what would the Assembly ask of me in return?” 

“Your occasional cooperation.”

“This deal doesn't seem quite fair to me, Herr Ikithon.” The Gentleman settles back in the chair again, ankle propped on his knee, propping his elbow on the arm and pointing at him. “But I think you could sweeten it a bit.” 

Trent casts around for the incantation he needs, turning drumming fingers resting on the table into the weave of a spell. Discovering the man's name is his only goal in this and lucky him that arrogance runs deep in crime lords, because it is easy to pluck the information out of where it's hidden in the other man's mind.  

“And what exactly would sweeten the deal for you, _Herr Dosal_?” 

Babenon tilts his head, seemingly impressed, but the pinch to his eyes speaks of discontent at Trent knowing such a secret. Names have power, after all. The gensai shrugs it off, turning the grimace back into a satisfied grin and reaching for another grape. Slender fingers plucking it from its stem and Trent watches its journey to the gensai's lips. 

“Many things.” 

“We are capable of many a thing in the Assembly.” Trent watches the gensai swallow, tracks the movements of his adam's apple and ignores the way his own mouth has gone dry. “Name your price and I can tell you how much we are willing to pay.”

“Oh,” The gensai all but purrs. “I don't think the Assembly can give me what I want.” 

“And what is it you want?” 

“Well, that's a tricky question, you see.” Babenon takes a sip of blood-stained wine. A small drop sneaks its way past the corner of his lips and Trent sees it drip down his chin until an aqualine thumb swipes it away.  “It tends to change from day to day. I must admit, I am an impulsive man at heart. Sometimes I see something I like and suddenly it's all I want.”

Trent swallows, tongue oddly heavy and uncooperative. “And what is it you want right now?”

The gensai leans forward enough that when he reaches across the table Trent's own hands are easily trappable. “I'm sure you can figure that out.” 

This is part of the job description. 

And if it means securing the criminal's loyalty, then he will endure the attentions. 

Trent smiles, a pleasant show of teeth he blends with a faux sheepishness that sits like acid on his lips. He doesn't shake the hand off where it settles over his own, he doesn't flinch when the man's other joins it, trapping him in a cage of fingers and palms. He even pretends the touch of condensation permeating the man's skin sends a shudder down his spine. Wets his lips, lingers on the action, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth for a tentative moment. The gensai’s eyes flicker down to the motion and Trent notes the dilation, the heavy slouch of Babenon's eyelids, the way the man's own lips part in the smallest, pleased sigh. 

An answering thumb brushes along his knuckles and the nape of his neck flares with a real shiver this time, trickling down his spine, mirroring the bead of water he watches roll down from Babenon’s temple. It slides its way over sculpted cheeks and along the sharp curve of his jaw before trembling in place under his chin.

Babenon stands with all the fluid motion of liquid poison, fingers trailing their way up his forearm as the lithe gensai rounds the table. Caressing up and up, soft fingertips, non-labored ones, ones that brush his arms from the table until they're limp by his sides. 

The gensai straddles him before he can blink, the weight settling heavily across his thighs, hands falling casually on his shoulders. He squeezes them before moving to lace at the nape of his neck in anything but a friendly gesture.

Trent stares up at him, teeth clenched, gaze unwavering in the face of the panther crouched in his lap. Babenon leans close, fingers trailing up the back of Trent's neck to twist in the shortened strands, pulling just enough that he can't tuck his chin or retreat. The other hand sidles its way down his front, a finger playing over his sternum, circling over his chest and down, tracing a path of heat along his torso. It snares around his right thigh, nearly flush with Babenon's hip and the barest hint of a flinch contorts his face for a moment as the fingers dig in. But he doesn't back down. He holds Babenon’s stare with his own, notes the quirk of darkened marine lips, and ignores the heated press of the man trapping his legs. 

“You're a quiet one,” Babenon whispers, breath mingled between them. 

“Negotiations are over.” Trent retorts, keeping his voice as steady as he can. As if he's simply reciting any number of monotonous incantations and there isn't a hand digging into his leg or a thumb languidly circling over his inner thigh. “What more is there to discuss?” 

Babenon leans forward, pressing closer. Trent shifts back against the unyielding chair, but there's nowhere to escape to and there's a fire snaking its way up his spine. 

“Lots of things, _Herr Ikithon_.” The lips brush his ear and he shivers, fingers curling against the bottom of the chair.  

Babenon retreats with the sharp flash of teeth, leaning away and turning back for something left behind on the table. Trent sags in the momentary withdrawal, chest hitching, swallowing heavily and peering around the gensai to where cerulean fingers pluck up the abandoned cigarette. The man twists back to face him, resting against the table's edge for a pause, the thin stick of rolled tobacco pinched between his lips. Tip flaring in an angry burst of subdued hell-fire, the gensai takes a long drag before drawing it away from his lips, reclaiming his grip on Trent's hair and leaning in. 

Those same lips, saturated with the barest hint of condensation under the wavering of dim candles-- the very same lips that he honed in on the moment he saw the man-- fall against his own and he goes rigid. The fingers twisted in Trent's hair tighten and his lips part in a silent gasp at the sharp jolt of pain. Smoke curls in front of his vision, obscuring the soft contour of dark lashes framed along aqualine cheeks. Lips, chilled with water and pliably warm with life, slide and mould against his own and he finds himself answering-- even with the inexplicably heady and equally foul brush of smoke breathed across his tongue-- even when everything tells him he shouldn't.

Teeth drag at his bottom lip and Trent's hand slides up to settle on the gensai's waist. The other palm claims a spot on the leather-clad thigh straddled over him, fingers digging in, pulling the gensai closer. The answering moan against his lips rattles in his skull and pools, molten and heavy, in his gut. 

The gensai draws back first and Trent finds himself disgustingly keen to chase after his retreat. 

“So,” Babenon breathes, lips tinged a deep ultramarine that mirrors the flush creeping up the gensai's neck, “you are not just the Assembly's wooden puppet, then?” 

There's a heated flush settled over his skin, chest rising and falling more rapidly than he should ever allow it to, and the weight and unexpected heat of the gensai straddled over him is unavoidable now. 

“Still so tense.” Fingers dig into Trent's shoulders, kneading at the coiled tension trapped there.“ _Relax._ ”

His eyes flicker to the guards still positioned to either side of the gensai's abandoned perch, the two humanoids staring intently. Trent's skin crawls under their scrutiny. 

Babenon smirks. “Don't worry. They won't tell if that's what has you worried.” 

“Or maybe you're shy.” Fingers brush a strand of hair behind his ear and Trent shivers.“We can move this somewhere more private if you're so inclined.” 

Trent nods tersely, the hush of the bar audible, the eyes on them are far too noticeable.  He would rather do this without an audience. 

The gensai stands and the loss of heat is far too noticeable, as is the aching attentiveness of his cock.

“Follow me then.” Babenon says, over his shoulder, all the coy confidence of someone who's done this far too many times. 

He trails the gensai to what is presumably his private quarters. Through the smoke-laced, winding corridors, further into the belly of this hidden tavern and further from the escape that awaits him up top. The tightness coiled low in his gut and burning a trail up his spine yet lingers, with the taste of smoke still settled over his tongue and the phantom sensation of lips against his own. Babenon leads him to a room of lavishments, beckoning him to enter before him, into a chamber dominated by a four poster bed perfectly fit for a crime lord. When the door snicks closed behind him, Trent isn't sure what to expect. 

The strike to the back of his knees, sending him kneeling, isn't quite what he envisioned. 

Nor are the fingers reclaiming their leash on his hair. But he's not surprised when he's stuck looking up at the gensai, who appraises him with the air of a man inspecting prized livestock.  His head is wrenched back, Babenon’s fingers closing around his throat, squeezing just enough to be a warning, but not a threat, as a shudder wracks its way across Trent's shoulders. He swallows against the hand collaring his throat and the gensai gives a low satisfied purr at the sensation. 

“I bet this is how you've gotten to where you are now.” Babenon's thumb brushes along the flushed skin of his throat. “Sitting pretty on your knees.”

Trent says nothing.  

The gensai tilts his head, fingers clenching enough that a strangled huff works its way past Trent's lips. “Am I wrong?” 

The only answer he gives the gensai is narrowed eyes and a slow grimace. A low wildfire builds into flames beneath his skin as the digits twisted in his hair _pull._

Trent sighs when Babenon relinquishes his snare on his throat, instead grabbing his chin, the grip on his hair turning into a careful caress through the locks. “But I think you can do better than that.” The gensai tilts his head, runs his thumb along his lips and past their seam to muse over clenched teeth beneath. “And unfortunately I don't trust these just yet.” 

He almost doesn't expect Babenon to back off. He thought he knew where this was going, but the gensai retreats to settle on the edge of the bed, appraising him with rapacious eyes. Trent leverages himself to legs that have turned unreliable, calculations running beside the impulsivity he's trying to brush aside and ignore. Babenon crooks his finger and his feet answer before his head can make the decision, until suddenly he's standing before the gensai. It's odd to be the one looking down on him, knowing he doesn't ultimately hold the power here.

The gensai gestures to him, a languid sweep of his hand that Trent knows all too well. “Show me.” 

Trent obliges, the necessity of a deal and the brush of heat trodding his heart into a staccato driving him to toe off his boots and motivating fingers that deftly shuck off one shoulder of his robes. The aqualine ones that join his are unexpected and Trent goes to stop them, but they catch his wrist. The pointed look Babenon gives him stills his tongue and he finds heated digits, wet with the vestiges of the man's heritage, peeling back the layers covering him. Not one to be left vulnerable while he's flayed down to nothing Trent reaches for the slipping silk concealing the gensai's form. He manages to undo the tie around the man's waist, maneuvers it down one slender shoulder-- 

He finds himself blinking up at a ceiling, sheets trapped beneath him, and the memory of how he ended up on his back, with the gensai straddled over him, is a fuzzy blur of movement. There's hands smoothing over his sides, the open air chilled and the peppering of gooseflesh quickly decorates his exposed skin. The gensai shimmies off the last of Trent's fabric barriers, pausing to shuck off his own vestments until it's heated skin against heated skin. A drop of water strikes the flushed and tender skin of Trent's pelvis and he can't help the way he tilts his head back for the searching lips pressing along his jaw. The unexpected circling of fingers around the base of his cock sends his breath hitching, hips stuttering, and fingers twisting into the fine sheets. 

The gensai chuckles, shimmying back until he's no longer settled over him and the loss of weight and heat sends him huffing. But the blissful ring of fingers doesn't leave and Trent watches a thumb brush over the head. His teeth click shut at the sensation wracking its way through his limbs and settling hot along his face. A panting breath leaves him at the first brush of lips against his cock and his head reels, heels pushing against the mattress and hips jerking upwards. The humming chuckle from the gensai's mouth sends the urge to tangle his hand in dark locks and force the man's head down-- to find out what the inside of his mouth feels like-- wracking through him. He raises a hand to do so, weakness winning out against the incessant teasing of the gensai's breath and the constant slide of water dipped fingers, but another hand stops his and the promise of lips draws back. 

A pathetic whine leaves him and the gensai just tilts his head, pressing Trent's hand back into the sheets. “I trust you can keep your hands to yourself.” 

Trent nods, ribs jerking, ruddy flush washed down the length of him and cock aching. He wants the promise of that warm pliable heat back. He'll do anything-- 

The lips that close over the head of his cock are everything he imagined when they moved against his own, back in the belly of the bar. The brush of a tongue is enlightenment, and his fingers claw into the sheets. 

He wants to shove the gensai down, he wants to feel that tighter press of flesh at the back of his throat, he wants to-- 

The gensai slips further down with little hesitation and Trent arches against the sheets, restraint thrown out the window with the pathetic whine that slips out. The aroused heat of his skin flushed embarrassed by this pathetic display he's been reduced to, but he doesn't care. He looks down and all he sees is dark hair and pointed blue ears and the gensai tilting his head enough to look at him with amused eyes and a chuckle echoing from an occupied mouth that sends Trent's blood roiling in all the ways he tells himself it shouldn't.  Not for this-- not for these kinds of deals-- but he can't help the growing heat, the climbing inferno, the inexplicable tightening in his gut. 

The gensai hollows his cheeks, fingers still moving along the base of his cock and the dual sensation has Trent nearly ripping the sheets, fist slamming into the mattress and heels digging, feet tangling in the satin. He needs more. He needs so much more. 

The entire world is a burst of heat and color, reduced to blue-- blue  lips, blue hands, blue heat wrapped around his cock and reducing him to nothing but a simpering animal, a mewling, whining thing. Trent's starting to think maybe this pathetic reduction is more satisfying to the gensai than watching him on his knees. A cry wracks its way from his ribs and he arches again, a frustrated keen leaving him, because he wants to hold the gensai down, feel him choke and writhe around him. He's  close-- he's so close, but he just needs--

He fists his fingers into dark locks, presses that cavernous warmth down as far as it can go, devolves in the rapturous sensation of that spasming and constricting heat around his cock and he falls into a white fire that tears across him. 

His hand falls limp to the sheets, fingers catching his wrist and lips withdrawing from him but he doesn't care. Because there's still the blissful bits of color skittering around the edges of his peripherals and the satiated rumble of content locked beneath his sternum, bleeding through his limbs in the heady pulse of his heart. 

He doesn't fight the hands that hoist up one arm and lash his wrist to the bedpost, then the other. He just blinks up at the gensai smirking down at him. 

“I don't trust you to use these when you should.” Babenon explains, tugging at the restraints that Trent's found his arms suspended by. 

He's flipped, arms crossing over one another in their confines, shoulders straining uncomfortably, and he tugs experimentally at them. His movements are sluggish and sedated, his wits returning with the hands that maneuver him so he's propped up on his knees. The drop of chilled liquid, the slide of oil against his skin a familiar one and all too easily recognizable where its pooled on the small of his back. Fingers massaging the oil, caressing over still-trembling muscles, trailing down and down. Knees knocking his calves further apart, nails digging into the meat of his hip and raking down to settle on his ass. It should all be humiliating; a slicked finger circling over him, head hanging, arms pulling at their sockets and wrist chafing in their binds. But all he knows is the returning strike of heat in his gut, leftover coals not yet spent blazing back into life as he pushes back against the teasing digit. An indignant flush rises in his cheeks as it presses in.

The pressure is always an odd sensation at first, an uncomfortable intrusion that gives way to an invited one the further it goes. It crooks, dragging along the inside of him, and a low mewl escapes his parted lips. Babenon chuckles, a hand smoothing over his spine, playing over the ridges in a delicate dance that mirrors the obscene sensation of a second finger joining the first. Trent pants, squirming in the restraints, shoulders full to aching at this point and knees protesting the position. The uncomfortable dip his spine has been forced into only adding to the heated drag of fingertips against the bundle of nerves inside of him. The low keen that slips past his lips is an embarrassing testament to his slipping control. A third finger joins and the sounds caught in his chest are little more than begging whines. 

They retreat without warning and he presses back for something, anything, the loss a gaping hole inside him. His cock beginning to stir to life once more, spit collecting behind his teeth with an insatiable hunger for something he shouldn't rightfully want in this. The blunt press of a cock against him accompanies the fingers that curl around his waist and keep him steady. Legs spreading reflexively, hips jerking back, an eagerness caught in the panting, huffing breaths leaving him. It presses in and he keens at the sensation, at the invasion of it, at the burning stretch. First only an inch, and then suddenly there's hips settled flush against his backside before he can rightfully gather his thoughts. Time is a wavering construct suspended in his head, all tied to the fingertips digging into his hip and the blissful, all encompassing weight and brand of heat inside him. 

Trent writhes, pressing back, canting his hips and seeking out a friction the burn isn't offering him. He will not resort to asking Babenon to move. He will not beg this man to fuck him. He will not-- 

“Frustrated?” Lips brush against his shoulder, the gensai curled over him and pressed along his back. “What is it you want?” 

Trent grits his teeth, bows his head, tugs against the restraint despite the pop of his joints. He won't beg this man to-- 

The jerk of hips against him sends him huffing, fingers curling into fists, the drag of the cock inside him a blissful ignition. Trent shakes his head, tries to ignore his own cock stood to attention again, the bone deep ache seeping through him. 

“If I don't know what you want how can I help you?” Babenon asks again, punctuating the question with an aborted snap of his hips that isn't nearly enough. 

Nonsensical syllables croak out from Trent's throat, tumbling over a tongue that won't work and lips that only want to beg ‘please’. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Babenon whispers against his shoulder, teeth grazing along the heaving, trembling muscle, and a low moan lodges itself in Trent's throat at another jerky thrust. 

Gods-- He won't beg him-- He won't give this criminal the satisfaction. He-- 

“Please.” The word tumbles out before he can click his teeth shut against it, and a satisfied rumble leaves the gensai.

“Please _what_?” 

Trent grits his teeth, ears burning, cheeks aflame and a fire dancing and curling down each limb. He gasps at the slow, languid drag of the cock inside him, heat gathering at the corners of his eyes in the building frustration. His own cock is weeping beneath him. He needs-- 

“Please…fuck… me.” 

The words fall from him and burn like acid, but it doesn't  matter because the gensai answers in all the ways he was hoping. 

The smack of skin against skin joins the chorus of their huffed breaths, the gensai's own panted swathes of hot air breathed against Trent's back. Water drips to settle and slide down his sides, fingers moving to splay over his ribs, smooth over his chest, fingers tweaking at his nipple until there's a strangled cry bleated from his lips. The snap of hips against him is an intoxicating rhythm and he falls into it each accompanying drag against his prostate sends him groaning, falling slack in the lines, shoulders popping and arms creaking. Wrists bruising in their vices, the pain negligible for the pace the gensai establishes, fingers sliding over his throat and tilting his head back. Trent chokes when they tighten around his neck, a strangled moan bleeding from his lips, black spots dancing in his vision, an eager plea in his chest for the breath ghosting over his skin. Each thrust sends his knees raw, legs sliding against the sheets with the motion, sweat building on his skin, hot air billowing in his lungs and escaping in increasingly harsher gasps. 

He doesn't expect to be flipped until suddenly all he can see is blue over him, legs hooked over blue shoulders, and the sight of a blue cock disappearing into him. His own cock aching, untouched, weeping against him. There's not near enough friction and he goes to touch himself, to add to the bliss rocking through him from the punishing cadence of the hips against him, but there is only the restraints holding him back. He whines, a low desperate sound in his throat, squirming, tugging at the ties keeping him from his own ruinous completion beneath this.

Babenon leans forward, Trent bending further and he writhes at the burn of the stretch. Lips mouth along his throat, teeth nip at his jaw, devouring and hungry, before finding his own. He moans against them, a rattling confusion in his skull, the fire burning up his common sense with each continued thrust. His mind is caught up in a rut that should be beneath him, but he calls to the genasi with every answered cant of his hips.

“Tell me,” Babenon breathes against his lips, fingers digging into his hips, dragging up to his sides, a particularly hard snap into him coloring his order. 

“Come now, use your words. What is it you want?” Babenon continues, and Trent shakes his head, presses his skull back into the sheets and prays the fire will consume him so he doesn't have to beg.  

The gensai stills inside him and Trent's left heaving, ribs jerking, heart thundering and blood roaring in his ears.

Fingers still scrabble at open air, wrists jerking against fabric, mouth gaping, and a questioning mewl on his lips. 

“Ask me.” Another single, jerking hitch into him that sends him writhing. The words claw their way up the footholds of his ribs and he grits his teeth against them. 

“ _Beg_ me.” Another thrust, a harder one, one that makes him see a burst of light at the edges of his vision and sends his tongue near to wagging its desperate plea. 

“I--” He chokes, head tossed back, spine arched, heart slamming against his ribs, cock near to painful where it aches. 

Babenon says nothing above him, doesn't move, just sits inside him and waits and Trent _hates_ him for it. He hates that smug tilt to the gensai's lips, that deep blue flush to the man's cheeks and his neck. Coloring all the way down to his chest where beads of water slide down and river on aqualine skin and drip onto him. Forming searing pockets of sensation that dot his skin. A single drop falls onto his neglected cock and Trent clenches his teeth so hard his jaw nearly creaks. He wants-- He needs--

“Please--” The plea leaves him and it burns where it settles in the air. “ _Please_.” 

But it is like a floodgate, all the restrained mantras leaving him with the still oil-slicked hand that curls around his cock. He throws his head back against the sheets again, pulls so hard at the restraints the frame of the bed groans in tandem and he's swallowed up by the shift of the cock inside him. 

The hand works him over in time with the gensai's thrusts and Trent bites his lip so hard there's a flood of iron against his tongue that he latches onto. All he knows is the heady stench of salt and sex, the huffing groans above him and breathed against his neck where lips latch on and teeth pull at delicate skin. He wishes he could dig his fingers into that heaving back, rake his nails over delicate blue skin and watch it turn darkened and bruised.

A strangled cry wrenches from him at the particularly hard thrust, and then another, an odd jerky pause between them that speaks of a nearing end and the broken groan breathed into his ear mirrors his own. Heat spilling over his skin, hips thrusting up and back into the cock driving into him with a vigor that sends another cry tumbling past his lips. The panted breaths and the huffed curses carry him through his own completion, and he goes rigid. Arching, a sob ripping from his throat, he pulls against the restraints and thrusts up into the hand trapped around him, jerking up and down in a vicious pattern that makes him see stars and then nothing. 

He lists back against the sheets, limp, head lolling and breath heavy. The shattered, choked shout of the gensai accompanies the warmth blooming inside him, the man's thrusts turning into hitching jerky motions that end with a long drawn out groan that dribbles into a whine. Babenon rests his forehead against Trent's clavicle, weakly continuing through his own finish, nearly collapsing atop him.

The only sound left is the panting breaths shared between them. Trent's eyes roam over the ceiling, vision swimming, the heat gathered at the corner of his eyes having found its way down his cheeks at some point. He tugs weakly at the restraints, Babenon, leveraging himself off with shaky limbs and a satisfied grin curling his lips. Deft fingers undo the ties and Trent's arms fall limp to the mattress. 

“I'm sure you can show yourself out.” The gensai whispers in his ear and Trent's stuck staring up into the ceiling beyond the man's shoulder, cum still cooling on his skin and brain stuttering. 

Babenon all but peels himself off, settling onto the sheets beside him, finger trailing a nonsensical pattern over Trent's chest. He needs to get back to the Hall. Report back on his progress here. Tell them the most pertinent parts. They don't care what he does to secure any of the deals, just that he secures them. But when he turns his head, looks to darkened eyes and shining teeth, he truthfully can't tell what he's solidified here besides his own ruination. 

He manages to leverage himself up, arms trembling, shoulders protesting and his entire frame feels listless. Head stuffed with cotton, throat raw when he swallows the drying bunch of spit on his tongue, an aching soreness to every part of him when he swings his legs off the bed. He can practically feel the gensai's eyes on him the whole time. When he paws the stain across his stomach with the edges of the sheet, uncaring about their state, idly inspecting the beginnings of bruising mapped across him beside the slightly raised angry lines of nails raked across his chest. He's sure his back did not escape the treatment either. And his neck is no doubt an obvious red flag to the fingers that wrapped around it or the lips and teeth that roamed over it. 

He rises to his feet, step hitching, knee giving in for a moment, and he catches himself on the edge of the bed, to the gensai’s immense amusement. Trent pulls on his clothes, reclaims his robes and covers as much of the evidence back up as he can, grateful the criminal didn't feel the need to tear or rip them during the ordeal. A glance back to the bed reveals the gensai draped over sheets of deep maroon satin, a panther perched atop his throne, eyes slouched and appraising. And Trent finds that heat curling back to life at the picture it all makes despite his best  efforts. 

He turns to leave, teeth grit and jaw steeled, hand brushing the brass knob of the door, inches from freedom--

“Consider the cooperation of my organization… _tentative_.” The gensai finally says from his lounge, words laced with a telling satisfaction. “I think further negotiating might be needed before I align myself to any banner just yet, _Herr Ikithon_.” 

Trent nods, all but wrenching the door open. 

“Give the Assembly my regards.” Babenon calls, and Trent refrains himself from slamming the door on the amused lilt to his voice. 

Trent leaves the way he came, this time with a constant mantra of blue caught in his head and the silent promise of another encounter stuck somewhere up there as well.

X 

Ormid's eyes widen the second he sees him. The earth gensai hurries over, gaze flicking worriedly over him before settling on his throat.

“You get into a fight while you were there?” Ormid asks, brows pinched with genuine concern-- the man has always been the softer sort.

Trent purses his lips, fingers musing at the collection of mottled bruising that's all bled together into one mess. “Something like that.” 

Ormid nods, falling into step beside him. There's still the matter of giving the report to the domestic affairs, to give them what information he parsed and any deals he managed to secure. He doesn't miss the way the earth gensai keeps side-eyeing him though.  

“Hey, Trent?” Ormid asks, nose wrinkling. “Why do you smell like the ocean?”


End file.
